


In the mirror

by hydriotaphia



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Gen, Gothic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:23:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydriotaphia/pseuds/hydriotaphia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alcine tends to the fire that night, the lady is already in bed, silver ringlets peeking out from underneath her nightcap. Her face is creased with sadness and her hands tremble as she plucks at the quilt. The rose rests on a pillow, its garish pink highlighted by the worn hue of her skin. The lady holds the mirror in one gnarled hand.</p><p> </p><p>Almost ritually, the lady brings the mirror up high and says, "Show me the Beast."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pennae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennae/gifts).



> Thank you to J. and M. who made this better. And Happy Yuletide, Pennae. I hope you like it.

There is a mirror that never leaves the room in the east wing. Alcine has been there often, carrying wood for the fire so that the lady who lived there might not freeze. Alcine's small village inherited her along with the castle, an old, strangely-accented woman who had lived here in her youth and who had never left, like a living phantom that haunted the heart of the building. Though the village is a scant five miles away, the wolves show no fear in drawing close to the gates, salivating and eager. Sometimes visitors appear at the gates, horses flushed with sweat and fear, having taken the wrong way at the fork in the road. The lady welcomes them warmly, orchestrating banquets and chandeliers of beeswax candles from the meagre castle gardens and apiary.

 

The castle is dark and dismal, and full of grotesque faces and forms. At every landing, gargoyles with tooth and claw leap out of the stone at you. Alcine is kept busier than ever banking and stoking fires to fight the chill of the stone.

 

At night, when the dinner bell rings, Alcine sees the old woman parading down the corridors in faded ball gowns that went out of style many years ago. She speaks to the voices that follow her, whispering and clamouring. The parlour-maid saw her curtseying to Grandfather clock in the Yellow Dining Room once, affectionately calling it Monsieur Cogsworth. Madam Fairfax, the housekeeper, has heard her crying at night and describes strange conversations that send a chill through Alcine's bones – with the tasselled lap stool by the high chair in the dressing room and the candelabra used in the entrance. They say that once a year the lady opens up the disused ballroom and asks the spirits in the air to dance with her, the soft flesh of her withered arms swaying as she dances her part with an unseen partner. After dinner, the scullery maid whispers that the lady is crazy, that she talks to her wardrobe when Pepi comes to dress her.

 

Alcine shivers and Pepi giggles. "It's true," Pepi whispers to Monsieur 'Ancock, who looks after the horses. They are tucked up together like two trussed chickens in pastry, and Alcine thinks that perhaps the banns will be called soon.

 

"What about you, Alci?" Monsieur 'Ancock – Jean – asks. "Have you seen the crazy old bat on her midnight wanderings?"

 

From the doorway comes a loud "Hrrmmmph," which means Monsieur Rondgarde has come from the dining room with the half-empty plates and dishes. Alcine jumps to her feet; it is time to start lighting the fires in the bedroom.

 

"Remember," Jean whispers as she passes him. "Midnight – _OOoooOo!_ " And he and Pepi laugh.

 

Alcine begins to cross herself when she must pass by the lady or the lady's room. Monsieur Rondgarde is severely critical of any of the maids who do this, but Alcine has placed herself under the protection of Our Lady, who calms the sorrows and protects the vulnerable. The lady carries two things with her always: a faded silk rose and a chipped teacup. At night she wanders like a wraith who cannot sleep, restless until she enters the west wing. Alcine has never been there. The wing is closed and deserted, and Alcine was not yet employed during spring cleaning. Next year when they take the cloths off, perhaps Alcine will know why the lady seeks her solace in the empty rooms and dust.

 

Some mornings Alcine sees the silk rose on the pillowcase beside the lady. It is old like the lady herself, and some of the petals have fallen off the ivory stem. Those that remain are fraying at the seams and edges, little tears in the fabric that grow with the passage of time.

 

She is quiet and the lady does not wake when she leaves. In two hours, Pepi will enter to find the lady in conversation with the teacup, petting it softly and calling it Chip. When the lady hears Pepi, she straightens up, but her face is swollen and her eyes tear-shot.

 

"I was too late," is all she says to Pepi and then stands meekly, allowing Pepi to dress her without a word or a sigh, not even when the brush is tangled in a snarl of her silver hair.

 

Yet, for all her strange ways, the lady seems happy. She attends the library daily, and she dismisses Father Boudreaux's objections to her habits with a happy laugh.

 

"Why shouldn’t women be allowed to read?" she asks, tilting her head to the side enquiringly. "You sound positively primeval!"

 

Father draws his hat closer on his knee and repressing a chill from the dismal room. "It is unseemly, madam, for a woman to take the place that God intended for man. From Adam's rib–"

 

The lady interrupts him with a choked sob and a hand covering her mouth. "Adam," she whispers.

 

When she looks up again, Father Boudreaux can see that her eyes are shining feverishly bright.

 

"I haven't heard that name in so long," she explains. "It was the name of someone that I–"

 

Even Madam Fairfax, listening through the chink in the door, turns away.

 

"It was a plague, I hear," Madam Fairfax tells Father Boudreaux later. "Came down like a wolf among the lambs, and killed every one of them except thems as weren't here. By the time the poor duck was told, they was all dead, every last one of them, baby boy and all. She's never been the same, but she's harmless."

 

From her corner of the kitchen beside the smoking hearth, Alcine sees the Father's lips draw tight together.

 

"The Devil is in her mind," he says fiercely. "She described to me a seven foot tall Beast with horns and claws, and the name Adam. Have you no care for the impressionable souls in your keeping?"

 

Madam Fairfax wrings her clean apron between her hands. Even from a distance, Alcine can hear the _pop-pop_ of the starched corners crackling as they twist. "Father, it's just a fairytale."

 

"It is a demon," he says calmly now, setting his hat back on his head. "And I will speak to Monsieur D'aubrey at the Asylum. He will remember her."

 

When Alcine tends to the fire that night, the lady is already in bed, silver ringlets peeking out from underneath her nightcap. Her face is creased with sadness and her hands tremble as she plucks at the quilt. The rose rests on a pillow, its garish pink highlighted by the worn hue of her skin. The lady holds the mirror in one gnarled hand.

 

Almost ritually, the lady brings the mirror up high and says, "Show me the Beast."

 

Alcine bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and quakes in her shoes. The room is filled with shadows and ghosts. When she looks over her shoulder, the lady is still speaking softly to her reflection.

 

"When I look in the mirror, I am Belle again," the lady says, lifting her chin regally. She angles her head from side to side as if in admiration. Alcine tries to pull her eyes away to the fireplace and the placement of the wood, but the lady does not notice if she is slower than usual; she never complains about the servants' work or hits the chamber maids. Alcine cranes her neck and for just a second she sees a beautiful young woman in the mirror, with brown eyes and brown hair in the pocked glass.

 

"Madam," she cries, half-lifting to her feet. "In the mirror!"

 

The old lady turns eagerly to face her, each wrinkle carefully carving its own smile in her forehead. "Did you see it too, my dear Babette?" she exclaims, clapping her hands together delightedly. "I knew one of you would.

 

The mirror is just a mirror, though it is grandiosely ornate, covered in white enamel and hand-painted roses. Alcine stares, mouth half-open in horror, unable to know what was truly in the reflection. The priest has warned of witchcraft and the soul-destroying agony of eternal damnation.

 

"Once upon a time–" the lady begins, but she is drowned out by Alcine's wail. "Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, Priez pour nous, pauvres pécheurs; Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu, Priez pour nous, pauvres pécheurs…"


End file.
